


The Partnership Plan

by midnighteverlark



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bi-Curiosity, Bisexual Mike Wheeler, Bisexuality, College, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Feel-good, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Gay Will Byers, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Heteronormativity, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Mostly a feel-good fic, No Season 3, Period-Typical Homophobia, Queer awakening, Relationship of Convenience, Swearing, Toxic Masculinity, getting over mental blocks, just plain, not much angst, not sure, past trauma, probably, some but not much, which turns into
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29670063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighteverlark/pseuds/midnighteverlark
Summary: “What exactly are you proposing here?”“A - partnership,” Will gets out. “Of sorts. A safety net. Companionship. Shared resources,” he repeats, harping on that phrase because he feels like it’s the most logical, pragmatic argument he has in his arsenal. And then he swallows, and his voice loses some of its rehearsed steel and blunt practicality as he says, “Affection. Support. A shoulder to cry on without judgement, if you ever need it. A hand to hold.” Deep breath in. Hot blood rushing through his cheeks. “Kissing, if you want it. Sex, if you want it.”As the AIDS epidemic runs rampant, and the Party is about to leave for college, Will makes a decision. He will not spend his entire life wondering over what-ifs. He needs closure. He needs an answer, once and for all. So he offers Mike a proposition: pool their resources. Split costs. Lean on each other. Rely on each other. Be faithful to each other - and, thus, be shielded from the threat of AIDS entirely.Mike is straight. He thinks. But Will has some very good points, and if Mike went there with anyone... it would be Will. Plus, this isn't forever. It's just a temporary precaution. A mutually beneficial arrangement, for however long they need. Right?
Relationships: Will Byers & Mike Wheeler, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 84
Kudos: 84





	1. The Proposition

**Author's Note:**

> HELP ME MY MUSE IS OUT OF CONTROL.  
> Look. LOOK. I KNOW. I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE STARTING MORE STORIES.  
> BUT I GUESS I AM. (Flips table)

October 1988

Here is Will’s thinking.

He refuses to spend his whole life wondering. He’s spent enough of it doing that already, and he cannot - _will not_ spend the whole rest of his life pining after Michael fucking Wheeler. He needs an answer. He needs closure. He needs - no matter how scared he is, no matter how miserable it makes him to consider the possibility of their friendship ending in a pillar of flames - to _ask_. 

Because he knows, he _knows_ that if he just continues to carry on the way he has been, he’ll keep doing it forever. He knows himself well enough to know that. If he never does anything about it, if he never asks, he’ll spend his whole life wondering if maybe things could have been different. And he refuses to consign himself to that fate. He can barely stand the perpetual teeter-totter anymore, it’s driving him nuts. It’s been driving him nuts - and making him stressed and anxious and miserable - for years. And he can’t face a whole lifetime of that.

So, here are his options. Either Will can shut his mouth and keep his thoughts to himself, like he has been for his whole life, and he and Mike will go to college, probably in different states, and drift apart, and eventually they’ll have separate adult lives and jobs and dogs and apartments and significant others, and he will always wonder. He’ll _always_ be haunted by that what-if.

Or. His other option, and the one he intends to pursue, if he can just muster the courage.

Will can ask. He can... offer. 

He can tell Mike what he feels, what he wants, what he could _give,_ and then... Then it’s just a matter of seeing what happens. Because then, the way Will figures, one of two paths will unfold. 

The most likely scenario is that Will’s heart breaks. Mike turns him down. Maybe roughly, maybe gently. Maybe he’ll sneer or spit or back away, maybe even yell, or maybe he’ll be soft, tender, brushing away Will’s tears as he says, _Will, no. You know I can’t. You know you can’t have that._ And any of that would be fine, any of that would be _good,_ because then Will could pick up the pieces of his heart and _move on._ He would be a little broken, for a while - more so if Mike yelled or hit him or called him ugly names. And then, whether it took weeks or months, he’d heal. And he’d be able to cut ties and move on. He’d be able to finally, _finally_ put that lingering possibility to bed. He could finally close that door behind him, bury the coffin, mourn, and move forward with his life. Unhindered by loose threads, unburdened by the relentless wishing, wondering, hoping. He’d _know,_ for absolutely certain. And he’d go to college and make new friends and maybe even get a boyfriend, and make new memories with new people in a new place, and he’d go on with his life.

Or, the other path. The far less likely path. Impossible, even. But one he _has_ to try, if only to cross it off his list. He just has to know that it wouldn’t work. Definitively. 

This path is one where Mike accepts his offer. Where Will gets a partner. Where he gets _Mike_ as a partner. Where he gets his wish - even if it’s only for a little while. Mike might agree to give it a try, for a few months, and then renege on the deal when it gets too much for him, too weird. 

And that would be fine too. Because, again: closure. Reset to Outcome A. Heartbreak. Healing. Closure. Moving forward. If they try and it doesn’t work, at least Will would have _tried_ , and, well, there’s his answer again. He just needs an _answer._

All of this hit him in a sort of moment of clarity - part of the exhausted fallout after an autumn-induced panic attack, late one night. At first it was more daydream than idea. Just an intriguing thought to pursue and turn over in his hands, the shape of it at once sharp and comfortable, dangerous and enticing. But the more he thought about it - slowly, over days and then weeks - the less it felt like a daydream and the more it felt like an idea. 

And then it started to feel like a plan.

And then, after a period of paralyzed, keyed-up indecisiveness - does he even dare to hope? - he started to plan for real.

And now, though he can barely believe he’s doing it, he’s putting his plan into action.

On the day he means to say it, to give his confession and make his offer, he dresses just a little nicer than usual. He makes sure he looks pretty good - not _fancy,_ just. Good. Put-together. Maybe even attractive. If he’s going to offer this, offer _himself_ to Mike, he wants to be appealing. Maybe not handsome, exactly, maybe that’s too much to hope for, but... Competent. Collected. Clear-eyed and steady. So he makes _sure_ he actually sleeps enough, the night before, and he doesn’t drink too many cups of coffee so that his hands wouldn’t shake, and he chooses his outfit carefully, and he even styles his hair a little. 

And then he chickens out, and never says any of it, and the day passes without incident.

Three days later, when his mom and brother are guaranteed to be at work all day, he resets himself and tries again. Sleeping late in the morning. Only one cup of coffee. A call to the Wheeler house - could Mike come over today? Soon? Now? Great.

Shower. 

Carefully selected outfit - nothing too outside his usual rotation, but something newer, something without frayed hems or stains, something that actually fits him. Not slightly overlarge hand-me-downs from Jonathan. Wrinkle-free slacks and a button-up that he knows suits his frame well.

Just a _touch_ of styling gel in his hair. 

Sweaty palms, aching stomach. Mike will be here any minute. 

Pacing. Waiting. 

And then there’s Mike on the porch, and this time... This time Will opens the door with a deep breath and says, “Can I talk to you?” before Mike can even say hi. 

No backing out this time. Now he started it. Now Mike will want to know what’s going on. Now he has to finish it.

So he makes them both tea - resisting the urge to pour himself coffee instead - and sits a baffled Mike down at the kitchen table, and starts with, “Don’t answer yet. Take a few days. Take a few weeks, even. But I... I have a...” He gropes for words, hands drifting in front of him, and then clasps them together as if to steady himself and settles on, “Proposition.” 

Mike’s brows are furrowed. He can tell something is up, something big, and he’s worried. But not worried enough to question it, yet. He takes a tiny sip of his scalding tea. “Okay...”

“Well. So.” 

How does he start? He’s made this whole speech so many times in his head, and somehow he can’t remember how he ever started it. His pulse is racing, blood rushing through him, making him as shaky and fidgety as the caffeine would have. He can’t believe he’s doing this. Is he going to do this? Is he really going to do this? Or will his courage fail at the last second?

He starts the only way he can stomach it: by skirting around the real topic. Circling it without touching it.

“AIDS,” Will says, and, wow, what a stellar opening, William. Way to go. He pushes through. “It’s... I mean, you’ve heard. We’ve talked about it before, it... You can’t go a day without hearing about it somehow. You know. News. Rumors. It’s... It’s scary. It’s dangerous. Like, really, _actually_ dangerous.”

Mike nods along, more concerned now than he was at the start. Probably because of the gravity to Will’s voice. This isn’t Will’s usual speech pattern. This isn’t Will just having a conversation, saying things as they come to mind. He has an agenda here, he has a point, and he knows Mike can tell. It makes butterflies the size of pigeons swarm in his stomach.

“Lots of people have died,” he goes on, even though he knows Mike knows that. He just feels the need to reiterate it, impress it upon his best friend. It’s a key pillar to his entire line of reasoning, a core component of his whole mindset here. “It’s, like, a real, actual threat. Even here.” _Here,_ meaning, Hawkins. “Like last spring. That middle school teacher that caught it. You know. Word got out, parents were panicking and threatening to pull their kids out of school, you remember.”

Mike nods again. Of course they remember. That teacher wasn’t back this fall. 

“Or the guy on your street.”

Another nod. Mike is starting to look like a bobblehead.

The guy lives a few doors down from the Wheelers. He went away for college - and then he came back home because he caught it. He and his family have been struggling to pay for medical bills and figure out what they’re going to do, and Mike has said before that everyone is a little afraid to approach that house anymore. 

“Getting together with people is really dangerous right now,” Will sums up, lamely, and Mike gives a final solemn nod and then sips his tea. Bobblehead mode completed and deactivated.

Will wipes sweaty palms on the knees of his slacks. Here it comes. One more step towards the point of no return. Once he says this, Mike will want to know why. It will be much harder to abort mission if he takes this next step. “Can I ask you something personal?” 

Mike looks a little taken aback, but barely hesitates to say, “Yeah, ‘course.” 

Will swallows past the pounding heart in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries sipping his tea to wash it down. When he lowers the cup, he takes the plunge. “Have you slept with anyone?”

Mike goes red. He looks at the Byers’ wall calendar, addressing the Cute Dog o’ the Month to say, “Oh. Uh. No.” 

“Yeah, me neither,” Will says. “And that’s how it transmits, right? So... the both of us should be safe.” 

Mike looks back at him, embarrassed, confused - curious - and says, “Yeah, should be.” 

And Will’s knee is bouncing, and he’s clasping his hands hard to keep them still, and his blood is rushing in his ears as he abruptly blurts, “Look, I need... I really just need to -” A vague, meaningless gesture. Restless and twitchy. “Talk. Explain. Just - just let me explain, for a while, and don’t... Please don’t say anything. Until after. Because I’m really not good at this and it’s, I’m, I’m gonna fuck it up, so I just need to talk through it until it kind of makes sense. Okay? So just... hear me out.” 

And Mike opens his mouth, closes it, blinks those dark eyes at Will, and the nods, once.

And Will nods back, and takes a deep breath, and makes his speech. Or at least, as best as he can. He makes the best case for himself, for _them,_ as he can. Looking at the table between them most of the time, because he doesn’t want to look away - he wants Mike to be able to see his face during this - but meeting Mike’s eyes right now is out of the question.

“I want to offer a proposition,” he says again. “Consider it a... business proposition of sorts. A partnership.” His ears burn, saying that word, like, _that’s it, that’s the magic word, you’ve really committed to this now._ “We’ll be in college next year, and we’ll probably want to. Ah. You know. Just, it would be really easy to get it. AIDS.”

Okay. Okay. He’s doing okay. Take a sip of tea, slow down, don’t breathe so fast. Breathe between words. Don’t hyperventilate or this whole thing is ruined.

“And,” he continues, a little more smoothly now that he remembered to breathe, “I’m an, well, I’d like to be an artist. I want to study that. In college. And who knows if I’ll ever make a career out of it, but it’s not like I’m ever gonna end up in one of those high-paying jobs, you know? I’m not really planning on being a doctor or going into business anytime soon.”

All right. This isn’t so bad. Mike is tuned in now, leaning back in his chair slightly as he listens, clearly unsure where Will is going with all of this but - 

But he’s _listening._ And, so far, Will isn’t completely incomprehensible. If he just keeps going, keeps moving forward, maybe he can ramble his way through. Maybe he can really do it.

“And I know you’ve said you might want to be a writer. Or do _something_ creative. And that’s hard. I mean, people - adults, mostly I mean - they’re always saying it.”

“Why don’t you look at some _productive_ majors?” Mike whines, imitating the tones of a woman - maybe his mother, maybe a school counselor. Then he lifts his hands. “Sorry. Not saying anything.”

Will chuckles. “‘S’okay. And that’s it, exactly. Clearly we’ve both heard it a lot. And I mean, they’re not _wrong,_ it is... not easy to get by on that kind of career.” He gives a kind of sideways nod. “Unless... there were two of us.”

That makes Mike shift. He sits forward a little, elbows braced on his knees as he holds his mug between his hands.

Will measures out his words. “Two small incomes can support two people better than one small income can support one. They were saying that in the godawful business and finance class I had to take last year. Shared expenses make all the difference. Apparently. Shared rent, shared groceries.” He swirls his tea, gazing into his mug as an excuse not to meet Mike’s eyes. “Pooling resources could make it possible for us to actually do what interests us. For a living.”

Mike shifts, lips parting like he’s about to say something, but then he remembers and closes his mouth again, nodding for Will to go on with a pensive little frown between his brows.

Will is getting ahead of himself. Rent, groceries. That’s the future. That’s too far in the future to be thinking about, too far to be _talking_ about. He’s going to scare Mike away before he ever gets to the important part.

College.

Start with college.

“But,” he says, flicking a hand as if flicking away all of what he just said, “That’s not... That’s... later. But _college._ You know? Next year. Shit, can you believe we’ll be in college a year from now?”

“No,” Mike says, cracking a smile.

Will snorts. “Me either.” Refocus. Think. This is the critical part. “Okay. So. What’s the stereotype about college students?”

“Poor,” Mike says immediately. “Ramen noodles. Jumping at free food. Getting stupid drunk at frat parties.”

“Poor and miserable,” Will confirms. “It’s such an accepted truth that it’s a _joke._ But maybe not if we work as a team. Like I said. Shared resources.”

Mike’s thinking it over. He’s really thinking about it. Will can tell by the far-off look in his eyes, the tilt of his head. And that’s a good start. If he’s considering this, maybe, just _maybe_ he’ll consider the rest. Even just for a moment.

“‘Cause, your parents have been threatening not to help you out with college money if you don’t -”

“Choose a _useful_ major?” Mike says, putting air quotes around the offending word. He rolls his eyes. “Yup, they’re still on that.”

“So... fuck it. Let them withdraw their help. I don’t have any college savings anyway, or at least, _barely._ But we could make it together, maybe. Like, we don’t have to be _roommates_ or anything...” In fact it might be better, healthier if they each have their own dorm, at first. “... but we could go to the same college, or at least the same city.”

He’s getting uncomfortably, terrifyingly close to the real truth of the conversation, the _real_ reason he’s saying all of this, and he feels a little faint. His throat feels tight. Is he starting to have an episode? No, he doesn’t think so. But he has to stop and drain the last of his tea before he goes on, fingers cold, every nerve in his body on edge.

_Here it comes. Here it is. The event horizon._

“We could support each other. You know, through the move and the life changes and the...” Will waves a hand around. “We’d watch each other’s backs. Make sure we don’t get alcohol poisoning or get stranded alone in a strange part of the city.” He laughs a strained, nervous laugh, but it does nothing to dispel the tension he’s putting off and that Mike is clearly picking up on. There’s a gravity to his tone that blows his cover, gives this away as much more than a simple offer of buddies going to college together. “Carpool. Share groceries. Pool tuition money. Help each other study. Be there for each other. We could just... watch out for each other. Like we always have.”

And that’s the point where Mike breaks his vow of silence, his voice wavering just a little bit as he cuts in to say, “What,” and Will can tell he’s choosing his words very carefully, calculating which tone to use. “- exactly are you...” He mimics Will’s gesture. “ _Proposing_ here?”

“A - partnership,” Will gets out, rubbing his lips together afterwards as he regrets how clumsy the word was. “Of sorts. A safety net. Companionship. Shared resources,” he repeats, harping on that phrase because he feels like it’s the most logical, the most pragmatic argument he has in his arsenal. And then he swallows, and his voice loses some of its rehearsed steel and blunt practicality as he says, “Affection. Support. A shoulder to cry on without judgement, if you ever need it. A hand to hold.” Deep breath in. Hot blood rushing through his cheeks. “Kissing, if you want it. Sex, if you want it.” 

And he’s not looking at Mike, he couldn’t look at Mike if he tried, but in his peripheral vision he sees Mike do a funny little shudder-jump. 

“Only if you want it,” he assures, his voice thin, barely more than a whisper because it’s all he can manage. “And - only as long as you want. I’m not - you know. I’m not asking for your whole _life_ here, I just. If we try for a month and it’s not - if we try for a _week_ and it’s not working, or it’s not what you want, okay. If we go all the way through college -” _Or further,_ he thinks - “Okay. The moment you say you’re done, we’re done. No questions asked.”

Mike processes this, eyes slightly glazed as they track back and forth across the tabletop, his entire head red as a fire engine. And then, a little clumsily himself, he ventures, “... you want to be boyfriends.”

He only hitches slightly on the last word, but Will hears it, and he stumbles to amend, “Partners,” as if that makes all the difference. “You don’t have to...” His shoulders do a strange, stilted wriggling motion, like he was trying to shrug and forgot how. “Be in love with me or anything, I... I don’t... expect that. But... We make a good team. Don’t we?” The last two words are quiet, almost pleading, and Will hates himself for it.

He’s bracing himself for the rejection, tensing in preparation for the slap to the face he knows is coming, whether literal or figurative. He’s almost looking forward to it. It’ll be cathartic to cry, he thinks. He can already feel it coming. He made it through the speech by virtue of adrenaline alone, and now the jittering energy in his veins has given way to a shaky, watery, emotional exhaustion. It’ll feel good to cry. It’ll hurt, hearing whatever Mike is about to say, but he’s already looking forward to the release. Sometimes you have to destroy something to build something new, and the destruction can have a certain pleasure to it, too. And he’s already done the hard part. He just has to wait, and listen, and see exactly how bad Mike’s reaction is.

But then, so quietly that Will almost didn’t realize he had spoken, Mike says, “We do.”

Will looks up, meeting Mike’s eyes for the first time since he was talking about groceries and watching out for each other. There’s fear in Mike’s eyes, in his face, etched in the hard lines of his hunched back and shoulders. But there’s something else there, too. 

“But I,” Mike says, and Will looks down again. 

There it is. There’s that _but._

Mike’s voice lowers again. Quieter and quieter, as if he can barely make himself say the words. “I’m not... I don’t think I’m gay.”

_Think?_

“I know,” Will manages, past the lump in his throat. “I’m not saying you are.”

Mike flounders for a moment, mouth opening and closing. He’s been holding his mug halfway to his mouth, but he hasn’t sipped from it in several minutes. Will wonders if he realizes he’s holding it. “Don’t you want some- don’t you want a real partner? Someone who... I mean... Wouldn’t you want a guy who could actually love you?” 

Will flinches, just a little, at that first explicit acknowledgement of his own queerness. So, Mike does know. He did know, all these years, or for who knows how long. Or at least, he suspected, and this conversation was enough to tip his suspicion into confirmation.

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. If he’s doing this, he’s going to _do_ this. And with the fresh wave of chattering, electric, numbing adrenaline in his blood, maybe he’ll even have the courage to go through with it.

Will breathes, breathes, clenches his jaw against the mist in his eyes, and then looks up and meets Mike’s gaze with a hard determination. “Do you love me?” 

“Will,” Mike says, almost gasps, almost laughs, almost sobs, tone completely indiscernible. 

“Do you love me?” Will insists. Throat shaking, fingers shaking, everything shaking. “I don’t mean _in_ love, I mean love.” 

A tear streaks down Mike’s face, and Will wonders why, he wonders exactly what this conversation is stirring up inside of Mike. If it feels anything like what Will feels. Like a hurricane. Like a wildfire. Like freefall and tightrope walking all at once. “Fuck,” Mike chokes, finally putting down the mug and dropping his head into his hands, fingers raking through his hair. “Yes. Fuck, Will, you -” 

“I love you.” 

Mike’s shoulders are shaking. 

“Mike, I love you.” And his voice is so _raw,_ so _full_ of emotion, but he hasn’t cried a single tear yet. “And I trust you. And I _know_ you. And I’m not saying forever. It’s not like this thing would be a.” He laughs, just as raw, sniffing a little now. “A lifelong commitment or something. Just... It’s bad right now, Mikey. It’s really bad. I’ve been hearing things, the news, people, they’re scared, and I know you’ve heard it too. You don’t know who might have it and who doesn’t, and - and I don’t want to fucking die from AIDS, okay? And I don’t want you to, either. And we’d be safe, together.” 

He’s reaching across the table, compulsively, stupidly, awkwardly snagging one of Mike’s hot, sweaty hands in his own cold clammy one. The angle is all wrong, the grip wrong. He’s holding the side of Mike’s hand, bunching his fingers uncomfortably, but _Mike isn’t pulling away,_ and Will thinks his heart might beat right out of his chest. Could he...? Is he...? 

“We could keep each other safe. While this thing is happening. We could... wait out the storm together. We’d be completely safe from all that, we’d protect each other, and we wouldn’t have to be alone, and -'' There are the tears, finally. “We could take care of each other. We’ve always -” Little gasp, little swallow. Compulsive, out of his control. “We’ve always taken care of each other.”

There’s a long, long, long silence. 

Will wrestles down his tears, evens out his breathing with the practice of one who has become adept at having silent flashbacks and panic attacks in public restrooms and then putting themselves back together and walking out with a smile. He can’t be a blubbering mess for this if he wants _any_ chance of Mike taking him seriously, any chance of Mike considering this. He has to be mature. He has to be worthy.

_See, I can be steady,_ he thinks, acutely aware of how their damp, shaking hands are still touching, and Will isn’t squeezing anymore but Mike isn’t moving away, either. _I can be reliable. I would be a reliable partner. I would be a good partner. Think about what I’ve offered. Think about what I could do for you. I could help you through college. We could help each_ other _through college. And if we stayed together long enough... we could afford rent together so much more easily. Less money stress. More free time. More freedom. We could make each other’s lives better. I’d help you through your breakdowns. I know you have them too. I’d keep you warm at night, if you wanted. I’d split what I have fifty-fifty. You can have half of everything that I own, and all of everything that I am. I’d be your sounding board. I’d kiss you whenever you wanted, if you wanted. I know you like kisses. I know you miss them. You’ve told me. Shit, I’d blow you if you wanted. Whenever. Regularly. There’s so much I can offer you. I have so much love to give, if you’d just..._

“I -” Mike says, punching through Will’s thoughts and making his eyes flash open. “I need...” He takes an unsteady suck of air, finally pulling his hand away, leaving Will’s fingers even colder. “I need to think.” 

Will nods, almost frantic in his need to show Mike he’s not pushing. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Of course. However long you... I mean, preferably not _months,_ but...” 

He trails off with a nervous chuckle, and Mike waffles like there’s something else he was going to say, but after a moment he just says, “I’ll, uh. I’ll. See you.” And leaves the kitchen without a backward glance. 

Will doesn’t follow him. He just listens to the sounds of Mike pulling on his shoes from beside the door and making his escape out into the clear October day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... new story, I guess. XD  
> Somebody stop my muse.
> 
> As always, I love to hear your thoughts! :D


	2. The Answer

October 1988

_Monday_

Mike barely thinks about it - _can’t_ think about it - for over three days. 

He goes about his business like nothing ever happened. He shows up to school on Monday with his stomach churning, but Will doesn’t say a thing. In fact, he seems so absurdly normal that Mike has a moment of confused disbelief where he wonders if Saturday happened at all. Will greets him with the same smile and _hey_ as always, not a moment of hesitance or a shade of uncertainty in his voice to hint at what happened. They talk about school and projects in the hall before first bell. They eat lunch with the Party and have Calculus together. And still, Will doesn’t crack. Not one meaningful glance. Not one false tone or absentminded moment of anxiousness. He seems as casual as ever, eating his packed lunch and scribbling out last-minute homework with an unbothered ease that both baffles Mike and makes him a little jealous. Why can’t he compartmentalize like that? Life would be so much easier if he could.

And suddenly Mike wonders if this is just Will’s default setting. Maybe it’s not that Mike imagined their conversation, or that Will is totally unbothered; maybe it’s just that Will is a much better actor than Mike thought.

Maybe this is normal.

Maybe Will has been acting every day of his life for years. Acting like everything is fine, like nothing happened, nothing is wrong.

How like Will. 

How troublingly, infuriatingly typical of him. 

Because if no one knows anything is wrong, no one can treat him differently for it. No one will walk on eggshells or treat him like he’s fragile if they don’t know they’re treading on a minefield. Mike wonders just how many mines have gone off without anyone ever knowing, because Will kept the explosion inside, never letting it reach the surface, packing it away to deal with later.

Maybe Will is just a lot better at hiding things than Mike.

Because the other option is that nothing _did_ happen, and Saturday was some bizarre dream or delusion on Mike’s part. He might almost believe it, except for his tongue. He scalded the tip of his tongue on the tea, when Will marched him into the Byers’ kitchen and shattered Mike’s sense of normalcy in the space of ten minutes.

The tip of his tongue is still a little numb. Tingling and tender, healing. But it’s there. It happened. He was there, in that kitchen, sipping that tea. Hearing Will say everything that he said.

Including the one unbelievable thing.

_I love you._

_Mike, I love you. And I trust you. And I know you. And -_

_Stop,_ he commands his own brain, hands fisting in the material of his sweatshirt. _Stop. I can’t._

But it doesn’t stop. It plays that moment over again.

_Do you love me?_

_Will._

_Do you love me? I don’t mean_ in _love, I mean love._

_Fuck. Yes. Fuck, Will, you -_

_I love you,_ Will had said, cutting him off. Cutting off the rest of his sentence, which was going to be something along the lines of, _Fuck, Will, you know that. How could you not know that? I didn’t exactly expect you to_ ask, _to make me_ say _it, but jesus fucking christ, yes, I love you. How could I not? You’re my best friend. You’re the most important person in the world to me, apart from my sisters. Yes, I love you. I just never thought I’d have to say it._

And the scary thing is, out of everything - _everything_ that Will said that day - that one little sentence might be what comes closest to convincing him.

* * *

_Wednesday_

Mike spins in his desk chair, not doing his homework. Outside, the sky is a light gray and a few halfhearted spits of rain dot the sidewalks.

He shouldn’t be considering it. He shouldn’t even be _thinking_ about it. And yet, here he is.

The thing is, Will’s argument makes _so much damn sense._

And if he was going to do this with anyone... he’d do it with Will. 

But won’t it taint him, somehow? People say it’s a slippery slope. What if he does this, gets into this kind of... relationship with Will, and it chips away at his ability to be... 

He doesn’t know. Normal? That’s not quite what he means. Just, what if he does this with Will, makes a commitment with Will... kisses Will... and what if he doesn’t want to stop? What if he doesn’t want to go back? Would it ruin him? What if it ruins his life somehow? Or is that just his mother in his head? No marriage, no kids, no white picket fence - but did he really want any of that anyway? 

But, no. Ruin his life? No marriage, _ever_? He’s being melodramatic. Too black-and-white. 

And anyway, that’s not the most pressing issue here. That’s all down the road. Way down the road. What he _should_ be worried about right now is that Will is a _guy._

Mike likes girls. Not guys. He’s not gay.

But.

But he’d be lying if he said he’s never thought about Will like that.

It’s an awful admission. It makes him _feel_ awful, makes him feel dirty, almost. Like earthworms have taken up residence in his gut. If the thought had come up last week he would have rejected it out of hand.

But then, it wouldn’t have come up last week, would it? It’s something he has a _lot_ of practice ignoring. He knew. On some level, somehow, he knew that he looks at Will, _thinks_ about Will just a little differently than the other guys. He’s known for years. Just... not quite consciously. He had pushed it too far down, ignored and denied it too thoroughly. If you repeat something often enough, eventually you believe it. And Mike had told himself the same story, so often, for so long, that for a long time he entirely forgot that it wasn’t the truth.

_Of course I don’t look at Will like that, he’s a guy. He just has pretty eyes._

_Of course I don’t want to hold Will’s hand, that’s fucking gay. He just gets jumpy in the dark and there’s a blackout._

_Weird dream. Really fucking weird. Not my fault I woke up with a boner, blame my brain for serving me up images of a naked person sitting in my lap. Even if it was my male best friend. Dream logic. Nothing ever makes sense in dreams._

_Of course I got him a card for Valentine’s Day, we’ve been doing that since we were five. It’s tradition. And just in case nobody else gets him something, I want to make sure he gets something from me. I don’t want him to be sad._

_Of course I love Will. Not in a_ gay _way, obviously._

He pretended so hard, for so long, that he forgot he had been pretending in the first place. But then, Saturday. 

_Do you love me?_

_Will._

_Do you love me? I don’t mean_ in _love, I mean love._

_Fuck. Yes. Fuck, Will, you -_

_I love you._

Just like that. Ten seconds. In a handful of seconds, Will reached out and ripped a hole straight through the convenient, presentable curtain Mike had hung up in his own mind. And it all came flooding back. All of it. Every time he ignored or pushed aside his own thoughts, rejected them and tossed them aside and explained them away because they didn’t fit the narrative in his own head. Every time he stared at Will just a little too long or had an impulse to reach for him that was just a little too strong. All those times he scolded himself, _God, Mike, don’t do that to him. Don’t think that about him. He doesn’t need that. What’s wrong with you?_

And Mike _is not_ gay, he swears he’s not. He likes girls. A lot. He likes their long hair and their curves and their soft breasts and their voices and the way their hands move. 

Mike likes girls. There’s no question about that. He’s not gay. It’s just that this is _Will._ And he has always had a weak spot for Will. A special place for Will in his heart. And... he supposes things just got mixed up. He got some wires crossed in his brain. He doesn’t usually like guys. He’s not like that. He doesn’t think about guys that way, not in general, it’s just that...

Does he want this with Will? Even though he’s a guy?

And then, a far more dangerous thought: does it matter?

He’s not sure. He can’t think. He can’t _think,_ he just keeps going in circles and getting caught and finding more circles to get caught in, and it’s all too much.

 _Deal with the devil,_ his mother’s voice whispers in his head. _Never worth it._

Except this isn’t the devil. This isn’t some queer trying to lure Mike into sin. Well, he supposes technically it is, but it’s also _Will,_ and that makes it different. Will isn’t just some queer. And he’s not trying to hurt Mike. He’s not trying to pull him into some toxic or ruinous scheme. He’s not trying to pull him, lure him into anything. Mike believes that. No matter how convoluted everything else is, no matter how many circular paths of thought he’s trapped in, going around and around and around, _that_ he knows for certain. It’s a steady and solid fact, an anchor. Will would never do anything, never _suggest_ anything that would harm Mike.

But would it hurt anyway? Does just doing this poison them both somehow? Society seems to think so. Being with another guy - being _anything_ with another guy except for allies, good buddies, or adversaries - don’t people say that does something to you? Makes you less of a man, somehow? Degrades you somehow?

Does Mike believe that?

Does he care?

* * *

_Thursday_

He sweeps dry leaves off the porch, mechanical, mind barely tethered to his body. The _swish_ of the broom is a grating, regular beat.

What is there to lose, anyway? What the hell is he so caught up on? 

The nuclear family, white picket fence future that he’s never wanted anyway? No, thanks. He feels trapped just thinking about it. 

Being a normal person? That ship rather sailed when he got caught up in preternatural forces and secret government agencies at age twelve. 

His reputation? Maybe, but it’s not stellar with classmates as it is, his friends have seen enough weird shit that _this_ would probably barely register, and they’re all leaving for college next year anyway. High school reputations end with high school, and they don’t have much of that left. 

A potential girlfriend? Not like he could never date anyone else after this... arrangement, if he - _when_ he bows out. 

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Maybe he’s not really afraid of losing all that, the possibility of it. Maybe what he’s actually afraid of is that he won’t _want_ any of that if he gets a taste of something else. And that’s... it’s... bad? He’s supposed to think it’s bad. Society would say it’s bad. He can’t tell if he actually agrees, or if that’s just a track worn so deep in his mind by exposure and repetition that it’s hard to think anything else.

And then a thought occurs to him. The broom stops.

Clearly Will is a queer - shit, Mike had always wondered a little, but he never knew for sure, not until now - and Will doesn’t act like less of a man. 

Or, well - _other_ people would say he does. 

When he was a kid, adults called him a _gentle soul._ As a young teen they called him a _late bloomer._ Now that they’re nearly adults, Mike hears far less charitable whispers, sometimes. Will can be soft-spoken, even a bit of a pushover, especially in public or with people he doesn’t know or isn’t comfortable with. He’s much more assertive and outspoken with friends. He’s creative, observant, thoughtful and kind. He’s not exactly what you’d call _macho_. And some people - Troy and his gang comes to mind, and Lonnie, and Mike scowls at the ground - look at that and see someone weak. Someone lacking something. Feminine, almost - no, effeminate. That would be the word. 

But Mike has never seen that. He’s never thought that. He never thought that Will was lacking anything or was any lesser for being how he is. Even now that he knows Will _is_ queer, after all. He doesn’t think Will is... _bad_ in some way, lesser, just... different. 

Hell, Mike likes that. He’s always liked that Will wasn’t like everybody else, that he was unapologetically his own person. He’s always liked Will’s observant, unpretentious nature and artistic instincts and his quiet bravery that becomes brilliantly visible during times of urgency or strife. It has never ceased to amaze Mike, how Will can step out of the background and take control of a situation, capable and intelligent under stress and pressure in a way that Mike envies. 

So, some people would call Will less of a man for who he is. Some people also call pineapple a pizza topping. Those people are communists and should be shipped to a desert island to think about their life’s choices.

* * *

_Saturday_

He paces. He stews. He tries to read and can’t focus.

Okay. So, Will being queer isn’t a negative thing. It’s not detrimental.

The thing is, it’s a whole ‘nother arena, trying to apply that same logic to himself. Will is one thing. Mike can process and digest and accept the facts that Will is queer, and that’s not bad, and he’s no different from the Will Mike has always known. He can swallow that with relatively little trouble. But trying to turn it around and apply it to himself is an entirely different beast. Namely because Mike isn’t queer. He likes girls. He’s always liked girls. Will in a relationship with a guy is just Will being Will. Mike in a relationship with a guy is... different. It’s different.

 _Is it?_ something whispers, deep down where he shoves unwanted thoughts and impulses. _Are you sure?_

Mike growls in frustration and kicks at the carpet. He’s getting nowhere this way. It’s been a whole week and his thoughts just keep going around in the same circles, dragged along in the same self-perpetuating patterns, doubts canceling each other out and redoubling themselves at once.

So maybe it’s time to approach this from a different angle.

Speaking logically, Mike can hardly find fault with Will’s so-called proposition. Having a virtually foolproof shield against AIDS is not something to be sneezed at. That’s a big deal. Like. Really big. People would kill for that. And it would _work._ That’s the thing. If neither of them have had the chance to catch it yet, and then if they only, you know, with each other, then... they’d be safe.

Complete protection from the horrifying and deadly disease that’s been wiping out huge chunks of the population. If that had been Will’s whole offer, just _that,_ Mike would still be seriously considering it. It’s like magic. Too good to be true. Poof. Terrifying threat gone. And all he has to do is keep it in his pants except for...

He gets up again. Pacing restlessly from his bed to his desk and sitting down there, like the five feet made such a difference.

Except for Will.

_Kissing, if you want it. Sex, if you want it._

Mike fidgets. He firmly _ignores_ that his pants are just a little bit uncomfortable all at once.

What would that even look like? Will doesn’t mean _all the way,_ right? Like... up the ass, that kind of thing? People actually do that, right? It’s not just a joke? He’s pretty sure people actually do that. But how the hell would he know? Is that what Will meant? Or was he talking about other stuff? Less hardcore stuff? Maybe he just meant handjobs. Blowjobs. Grinding together. Quiet and desperate in a warm tangle of blankets, thrusting against each other’s stomach or thigh. Kissing, maybe. Warm skin, human contact, fingers brushing the sweaty hair back from your eyes, a tongue dipping past your lips.

Unbidden, the memory of a dream: Will, completely unclothed, flushed from his ears to his thighs, perched in Mike’s lap. Lips red and shiny with saliva, hazel eyes dark and fixed on Mike’s as their hips rolled together.

Mike stands, so abruptly that his desk chair skids out behind him and bumps the wall. He holds his hands behind his head, breathing slow, deep breaths. There. If he’s not sitting, his brain can’t taunt him anymore with that phantom image. He can’t have anybody in his lap if he’s standing.

 _Oh, yeah?_ his brain mutters, and Mike puts his head down and bulldozes onwards. He needs to move forward. He will not get stuck on that thought, or he won’t ever get unstuck.

If guaranteed safety from AIDS had been Will’s entire offer, Mike still may have considered it. And not because of the... the sex part.

But, that wasn’t Will’s whole offer. There was more. So much more.

What Will is offering... It opens doors. Doors that would be functionally closed and locked to Mike alone. There are freedoms that couples have, financially, that single people are hard-pressed to match alone. It could mean a comfortable or even pleasant college life versus one constantly strapped for cash. It could mean freedom from his parents’ thumb; being able to choose a college and a city and a degree and a career without them making constant vague threats to pull their financial support. It could mean a more comfortable and hopeful transition into college, with someone already there to support you and be there for you, instead of the sudden shock of being in a strange city with no friends and no family and no idea what you’re doing or how you’re going to survive. 

It could mean the ability to look at apartments a year or two into college, instead of being stuck in dorms. More specifically, it could mean the ability to look at getting their _own_ apartment, not sharing with a lot of roommates. And that’s nothing to sneeze at, either. It could mean a co-signer on student loans. It could mean that if one of them stumbles, loses a job or has to re-do a semester, they’re not screwed. They have a - like Will said, a safety net. They’d have each other. Hell, if it really came down to it, they could work each _other_ through college. Mike isn’t totally sure what he wants to do yet. Maybe he could take some time off of school, get a job somewhere, take the brunt of the financial responsibility so Will could focus on his art degree. And then they could swap. It’s a thought. He doesn’t think it’s what he really wants to do, but it’s an _option,_ that’s the point. It’s an option they’d have, together, that they wouldn’t have alone.

Plus the career thing. Two incomes makes a _lot_ possible. It gives you a lot of wiggle room. Options. Freedom. Mike has heard more than his fair share of his relatives gossiping and bitching about money in various households. He knows. Shit, they might even be able to pull off both working part time and still meeting expenses. They’d be a little tight, probably, but what a forbidden fruit _that_ is. Making ends meet on a part-time job. Lots of free time. Time to write, maybe, if he still wants to be a writer by then. Time to learn an instrument or craft beautifully complex campaigns. _Time._ Isn’t that what everyone wants more than anything? People have died by the hundreds and thousands in the search for immortality. Employers pay for your time. It’s everyone’s greatest regret and biggest source of stress. Not having enough time. And Will - 

_I know you’ve said you might want to be a writer. Or do something creative. And that’s hard. It is not easy to get by on that kind of career. Unless there were two of us._

Fuck. Does Will know? Does Will realize that he just offered Mike his hopes and dreams on a silver platter?

 _Forbidden fruit,_ that voice like his mother’s whispers again, more worried this time because he’s so much more tempted than he was a few days ago. _Deal with the devil._

He bats it aside. He’s busy. He’s thinking.

He realizes, all at once, that he’s started to imagine it. What it would be like. Years down the road, if they do this thing, if they’re _still_ doing this thing. He’s imagining a nice apartment in one of those big cities Will talks about so passionately. Will’s art on the walls. They have a dog, or maybe a cat - dogs are big pets for apartments. He’s imagining shouldering through the door with groceries, his hair and jacket dusted with snow. Sitting down over pasta to discuss a project. It’s... it’s a graphic novel, Mike decides. He writes the story and Will draws. They’re hoping to publish it. He doesn’t work in an office, he’s not closed in a cubicle all day, or in retail, dealing with bratty customers. All his worst fears and dreads about the future... they’re not there. 

They check the newspaper for movie times. There’s one they’ve been wanting to see. Do they risk the snow? It’s not that far of a walk.

Work is hard some days, and boring on others, but Mike has a legal pad on his person at all times and scribbles down ideas whenever he can get away with it. And it’s only twenty or thirty hours. He has plenty of days when he doesn’t need to go in, or when he’s only working half the day. The rest of the time, he gets to spend his finite hours on Earth doing what he actually likes.

They’ll be paying off student debt until they die, probably, but they’re doing okay enough to replace the dishwasher when it kicks the bucket, and to visit Disney World every few years, and to get friends and family good Christmas gifts.

Maybe AIDS is still a crisis, maybe not, but either way they don’t have to worry.

The city is ever-changing and full of surprises. It’s not a small town. It’s not suburbia, with its endless, homogenized corporate wasteland. There are places to go, things to do. New experiences. Not just the same four walls and the same streets and the same two restaurants and three stores to bash their heads against over and over.

They never have to live in Hawkins again.

There’s not a picket fence in sight. 

* * *

_Tuesday_

He taps his eraser on his paper. Next to him, Will is hard at work on an equation, his pencil moving and then halting, moving and halting. Mike is gonna fall behind if he doesn’t figure out this concept, but he doesn’t care.

Here’s the problem: he doesn’t know if he can compartmentalize the way Will is suggesting. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to be Will’s partner in all ways - _except_ the real ones. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel fair. He thinks it would eat away at him. He doesn’t think he’d be able to share their money and their plans and their resources, take Will’s energy and his affection and his... his...

Mike shrinks into himself, flushed and wide-eyed at the memory of Will saying, _Sex, if you want it,_ even at the fiftieth remembrance.

His _body,_ take all of that, _do_ all of that and then just... go home like nothing ever changed and like Mike don’t have a significant other. He doesn’t think he can be Will’s partner without being his... well... boyfriend. He can’t keep that kind of emotional distance. Not in that situation. He can’t separate those things in his mind. 

So, if he accepts this... He can’t do it the way Will said they could. Where they do everything except the real stuff. Everything except real dates and kisses and love. 

Mike can’t be queer for Will, he can’t love him the way another queer guy would be able to. But he can’t make life plans together and emotionally support each other and be closer than friends ever would be and then just... stop there. If they’re gonna do this, they need to do all of it. Well, maybe not - 

_Only if you want it._

\- _all_ of it, all of it. 

But he can’t draw lines in the sand and spend his days trying to tiptoe around them. He won’t set them up to be dancing around a lot of self-imposed guidelines and rules. _We can plan college with each other but not hold hands. We can make out, but no dates. Remember, this isn’t real. I’m just here to use you._ It makes him wince just thinking about it. What an awful existence. He won’t tie himself to that, and he absolutely will not tie Will to it.

No. He’s either all out... or all in.

Even if that’s just for a week, or a month, or a day. Will said himself, there’s no commitment here. No contracts. They’re just trying something out, and it works as long as it works, and then they make a clean break when it’s done.

And if they can come out of it with their friendship... Well, there’s the kicker. Is it possible to come out of this as friends? Surely it would be. It has to be. Or else Mike can’t do this.

But... if they _don’t_ do this, wouldn’t they lose each other that much faster? They have no huge reason to keep each other in their lives as friends. At least, not when they’d be moving away to college and living their separate lives, paths diverging further and further. And, for reasons he can’t quite pinpoint, the thought is making Mike’s chest constrict. He does not want to drift away from Will. Will is a big part of his life. Not just his day-to-day existence, but something bigger, something deeper. They’ve been part of each other’s lives since they were five. Losing that would be... big.

So really, what’s the difference? If they do this and it doesn’t work out, it could drive a wedge between them. But isn’t that wedge lurking, anyway? Just waiting for college, for adult life, for them to go longer and longer periods between calls and visits? And isn’t that worse? It feels worse. It feels cold, heavy in the pit of Mike’s stomach, sinking through him. At least if they try, and split, and it ends in a big, colorful bang, at least they would have _tried._

 _Tried what?_ that same, infuriatingly quiet, gentle voice whispers.

 _To stay together,_ Mike answers himself, hot-cheeked and annoyed.

 _Why?_ the voice questions, prods, probes.

But, that answer is easy. _Because we’re best friends. Because we’re important to each other. Because we’re..._

 _Partners?_ the voice suggests, smug.

Mike lifts his fist and slams his pencil down into his paper, hard, breaking the lead and tearing the paper, ripping through to the desk underneath. Overwhelmed and scared and full of adrenaline and a newfound... decision? Maybe not quite that. But, a sort of courage, maybe. A _maybe._ An _almost-_ decision.

Maybe this is wrong. Maybe this is the worst decision he’s ever made in his life. Maybe he doesn’t care.

“Stuck?” Will says mildly, unperturbed by Mike’s tiny outburst.

Mike rubs at the pencil mark on the desk, glancing around to see if anyone is giving him a weird look. Anger issues are beyond embarrassing to deal with at school. Everyone treats you like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Teachers and students alike.

“Yeah,” Mike mutters.

_Real stuck. Very, very stuck._

“Mike?”

Mike jerks from his thoughts, head twitching to face Will, and for a split-second he sees Will’s casual façade flicker. 

Mike was deep in thought - _way_ deep - and Will knew exactly what he was thinking about. They both know. They could both tell, for that split second. 

And then Will recovers, quick as a blink, and says, “Which question is it? I think I’m getting it, I can probably help out.”

* * *

_Friday_

“This is... crazy.” Will looks over, but Mike can’t look back, not yet, so he just repeats, “You know this is crazy.”

It’s been almost two weeks since the conversation.

And in those two weeks, Mike has barely stopped thinking. His actual _brain_ feels tired. He thinks he can feel his frontal lobe aching. He’s been going in circles upon circles upon circles and now he’s dizzy, and tired, and - well, not ready. He’ll never be ready.

But he thinks he’s as close as he’ll ever be.

They’re in the Wheeler basement, the weekend has officially started, and for a solid half hour, they barely said anything. Both deeply engaged in their own activities. Will was reading and Mike was pretending to study, but really just trying to build up courage. Gearing up to it. 

And now, finally, he managed to speak.

Will slips a bookmark into his book and tosses it onto the coffee table. Casual. Too casual. He clasps his hands and they begin to bounce between his knees. When it becomes clear that Mike isn’t going to say anything else, Will speaks in a low, almost teasing voice. “We generally do that together, yeah?”

And, oh, god, this is the same couch, isn’t it? It’s the same damn couch as _that_ conversation, years ago on Halloween, candy spilled out on the table in front of them. No Mike’s Pile and Will’s Pile, just one big mess, up for grabs. Pooling resources.

And maybe that’s what pushes Mike to finally take the plunge - 

_I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy._

_Me, too._

_Hey, well, if we’re both going crazy, then we’ll go crazy together, right?_

_Yeah. Crazy together._

\- like maybe this is something they’ve been hurtling towards for a while. A long while.

Trick-or-treat candy spread out on the coffee table. No _my pile_ and _your pile,_ just _our pile._ Shared resources. Two mugs of steaming tea on a scarred kitchen table. A proposition.

_Together, right?_

_We could wait out the storm together. We could take care of each other._

Mike drags two hands down over his face, like he’s wiping away something, and blows out a breath, and says, “Okay. Okay, but I’m not doing this half-and-half. I can’t do that. I’m... I’m not the kind of person that can compartmentalize and balance like that. Maybe I’m just immature, I don’t know. But I’ve always been that way. Especially about...” He sucks in a breath. “This kind of stuff. I’m all or nothing. It’s just... I can’t help it, it’s how I’m wired.” 

He takes a peek, and the corner of Will’s mouth quirks up in a dry little smile, like he’s saying, _Oh, trust me, Mikey, I know. I’ve known you since you were the most stubborn five year old alive._

“So. If we’re gonna do this.” Mike is trembling. He’s terrified, he realizes, distantly. Terrified and expectant, in a terrible, fantastic, stomach-shredding way. “We have to _really_ do this. I can’t be your partner without...” 

He feels a sharp prickle behind his nose. His jaw is clenching, he’s freezing up. He’s not allowed to say this. This is mortifying, it’s _weak,_ it makes him vulnerable, people don’t say this kind of stuff, it’s too dangerous -

And he has to. He has to communicate this. Or else none of this will work.

And he wants this to work.

He really wants this to work.

“Without. Loving you. And I don’t know,” he rushes on, relieved to be past those words, “I don’t know if I _can_ , the way you...” 

“I’m not asking you to,” Will cuts in, gentle, urgent, but Mike shakes his head.

“I - I - I don’t -”

Fuck. This is awful, he’s getting emotional all over again. It’s _embarrassing,_ and he hates that he can’t just calm the hell down and say this. He wants to bail. This is too much. Too hard. Too vulnerable, too dangerous.

 _Just try,_ he urges himself. _You have to try._

He takes a deep breath to calm the jump of his diaphragm, and tries again.

“I don’t know if I can be in love with you,” _and maybe that’s not fair to him,_ he thinks, _But Will did say this is just temporary, just to try it out, just for now. No long term commitments made._ “But.” He has to look at their feet. It gets stuck in his chest, and he has to focus hard to get it out. It’s the truth, but such a hard truth. Razor-edged. It slices his throat on the way up, leaving his voice rough and wet, cutting his tongue. “I do love you. Like you said. And if we’re gonna do this, I can’t stand the... I can’t stand drawing a bunch of lines in the sand. You know. Like, _we can share money but no kissing,_ it just... I can’t do that. I can’t be tiptoeing around a minefield we planted for no good reason. If I’m gonna be with you I’m gonna _be_ with you.”

Will just breathes. Quietly, steadily. Mike wonders if this is another act he’s perfected. Or maybe he’s just processing, not quite sure what Mike meant yet. He stayed quiet for Mike’s speech, let him stumble his way through that awful, painful, _difficult,_ hopeful spiel. He hopes it was enough. He hopes he actually communicated what he wanted to say. It’s hard to tell, when all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears.

Finally, Will takes a little breath. “So, if I’m understanding you correctly,” he begins, all careful professionalism, and Mike can’t deal with that, he can’t wait long enough for Will to finish that sentence.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I want - what you were saying. To _try._ I want to try. I don’t know if - but - I want to try.”

His blood pounds in his ears for another few beats, and then Will says, “Can you look at me?”

Mike’s shoulders go rigid. Will wants him to _look_ at him right now? He can barely talk. “Why?”

“I just - I dunno, I wanna see that this is actually happening.”

But Mike can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he -

“You’re shaking,” Will says, softly, and Mike just nods, because, yeah, he is. There’s the sound of Will swallowing. “Hey. Mike. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I know,” Mike breathes, eyes still fixed on the coffee table in front of them.

Will moves. Just the tiniest bit, just an inch closer on the couch. “What’s wrong?”

Mike’s eyes close. He hates himself for this. For how badly he’s handling this conversation. He thought he’d be stronger than this. He made his decision. He already thought it through, ten times over and inside out and sideways. He had time to process, time to have his emotions behind closed doors, and here they are again to muck everything up.

But, fuck it. He’s already being weak and weepy enough, may as well add this one drop to the bucket. May as well let Will know what he’s getting into.

“I’m scared.” 

“Of me?” Will says, sounding very small and sad in that moment, and Mike gives his head a hard little shake.

“Of _me._ ” 

Will very carefully reaches out and puts one hand on Mike’s knee - already a more intimate, suggestive motion than they’d usually allow. “You know, you don’t have to do this.” 

And that, of all things, _that_ gives Mike the courage to turn his head and look up, looking into Will’s face. “I want to.”

Will is hesitant. Disbelieving. Skeptical. “Are you sure?”

He nods. Maintaining eye contact takes all the effort and willpower of lifting a car, but he does it, because Will wants to see the truth of it in his eyes. And maybe he finds it there, because his expression is starting to change. Eyes beginning to light up with a wary happiness, the frown smoothing from his brow, lips almost quirking up.

“Really?” Will says. 

Another nod, stronger this time.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Mike laughs, tension finally breaking. It’s a familiar, annoyed laugh. And, there, that’s easier. That feels better. Not such an uphill battle, not dragging so many demons behind him. “I said yes.”

“Oh,” Will says. 

“So.” He sniffs, sits up a little straighter. Okay. He’s okay. He made it through. It was... hard, but he’s here. He’s out the other side. “What now?”

Will opens his mouth, then closes it. “I, uh. I didn’t really expect to make it this far.”

Mike nods, rubbing his lips together, considering. All right. Time for Phase 2 of the plan, then. He’s got to test this thing out. See if it holds water. And he has the momentum now. He should say it now, do it now, before he loses that.

“Well, then.” He has to swallow down a scratch in his throat, looking away because he’s no longer brave enough to meet Will’s eyes. “I was thinking I should maybe kiss you. You know, to test it out.”

“Oh.” The word is entirely blank, and then Will seems to catch up to the meaning and he repeats, _“Oh._ Uh, shit. Yeah.”

Mike sees motion out of the corner of his eye, and when he glances up again Will is fluttering his hands like he’s holding invisible tambourines. It tugs at something in Mike’s chest. Will hasn’t done that particular nervous tic since he was _seven._ He seems to realize what he’s doing when Mike looks, and he interlaces his fingers and traps his hands between his knees to stop the motion.

“I, uh.” Will gives an anxious burst of laughter. “I feel like I’m walking into a test I didn’t get to study for.”

“It’s not supposed to be -”

“Just - don’t judge all of this based off of -”

“It’s not a test, it just -”

“I feel like I’m gonna fuck up,” Will says with a chuckle, smiling uncertainly at Mike from the other couch cushion.

Mike smiles back. A genuine, unintentional, spontaneous smile. He recognizes that sentiment. That fear, that nervousness. Wasn’t he just feeling it himself, a minute ago? Except, all at once, he’s not quite so paralyzed anymore. He’s still scared. Shitting bricks scared. But Will is nervous, too, afraid he’s gonna fuck up a kiss, and somehow that grounds Mike more than anything else. It reminds him that they’re both just human. This isn’t _such_ a huge thing. Sure, it’s huge. It’s monumental. But they’re both just flesh and blood, and he’s nervous, and Will is nervous, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe they’ll figure it out anyway.

“Well if you fuck up too badly we’ll just restart,” Mike says, and that makes Will laugh.

And then it’s time to lean in, before he loses momentum and loses his nerve. He has to do it now.

Now.

Mike lifts a regrettably sweaty hand, using the non-sweaty backs of his fingers to touch Will’s cheek and turn his face. Will’s eyes go wide, and he stops moving altogether - deer in the headlights - which means this is now a Mike responsibility. All right. He’s okay with that. This is something he can do.

Probably.

If Will would stop staring at him like that.

Mike wets his lower lip, and, _christ,_ Will’s eyes just darted down to watch the motion. “Um, could you close your eyes please?”

Will closes his eyes.

Mike takes one more full breath, scans over Will’s face, and leans in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was, like, 90% just Mike thinking and 10% plot, but to be fair Mike has internalized homophobia and heteronormativity out the ears. He needed some processing time and a couple paradigm shifts before he even agreed to try this. (And trust me, the internalized homophobia is not beaten yet by any stretch of the imagination.)
> 
> Please do let me know what you think! I'll say it again, this fic grabbed me by the throat. I'm not even entirely sure where it's going or what it wants from me. I guess we'll find out together ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


	3. Walls

_October 1988_

Mike starts to lean in. Will starts to panic.

He wasn’t expecting this. He wasn’t ready. And it’s not that he doesn’t want this, he does, very much so, but Mike said it like this was a _test,_ and what if Will can’t -?

Mike pauses, barely three inches from Will’s face, and Will thinks he might die then and there when the pink tip of a tongue darts out to wet Mike’s lips. “Um,” Mike says, low and halting, “Could you close your eyes please?”

Oh. Right. You’re supposed to do that. You’re supposed to close your eyes when you kiss.

Jesus christ, are they really about to _kiss?_ Is this really about to happen? Is he really about to touch lips with Mike, or is this some particularly cruel joke of the universe? Is Mike about to get ninety percent of the way there and then snort with laughter, jerking back to crow, _You really believed that? You really thought I was gonna_ kiss _you?_

 _No,_ Will tells his doubts and anxieties, _Mike said he wanted this. He said he wanted to try the plan. Our plan. He said -_

Will is tense. He doesn’t _mean_ to be, but his body is going rigid against his will, stomach stitched up close to his ribs and jaw wired tight.

He senses Mike pulling away - soft breath and the nearly imperceptible presence of body heat disappearing - and he wants to cry out and pull him back. _Wait,_ he thinks as his eyes flash open, _No, no, no, wait, I’m sorry, just let me try -_

But Mike is still hovering, expression soft, close enough for Will to make out every freckle and imperfection. “Relax,” he murmurs, and Will lets out a breath he’d been holding captive in his belly.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Mike’s look of empathy deepens into concern, and that’s so much worse. “Hey,” he half-whispers, “It’s okay. Don’t be sorry.”

“Sorry,” Will repeats, automatically, uselessly, like a stupid fucking stuck record. _Sorry. Sorry for being sorry. Sorry for being sorry for being sorry._ “I’m sorry, I just - I don’t really know how -” 

Mike is listening with a little frown, still hovering so close that Will can smell him, the soap he uses, the smell of classrooms still hanging around his sweater, and all Will can think is, _Shit. Shit, shit, shit, I’m ruining this already. I swear I can be better than this, Mike, please believe me, I just, I wasn’t expecting this so soon._

“You’re doing great,” Mike says, and Will scoffs, because, no, he’s not, he’s doing awful. 

What a fantastic way to start this off. Way to go, Byers. And isn’t that embarrassing? _Well, you see, I’m useless at this because I’ve never kissed anyone before, except for that poor girl in freshman year, and that doesn’t count because it wasn’t real._

He forces his shoulders down and pries his tongue off the roof of his mouth. Relax. _Relax._ He can do this. How is Mike ever going to see him as a viable partner if he can’t even manage a kiss?

Mike takes a half-breath, throat catching in the middle, and looks down. His lashes form a split-second pattern against the pale skin of his cheek - Will is close enough to make out the details. Their knees are pressed together, he realizes. Mike must have scooted closer when he moved in, turning a little on the couch cushion to face Will. Shouldn’t they be more face-to-face? Won’t this angle be awkward? But then they’d have to stand up or -

Or Will would have to climb directly into Mike’s lap.

A shiver crawls up his back, distracting him from the beginning of Mike’s sentence.

“How ‘bout I... I could just... show you.”

“Show me?” Will echoes, half a second before his brain catches up.

Oh.

_Oh._

_I’m sorry, I just - I don’t really know how -_

Show him.

Like, show him how to kiss.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, _yes._

He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or to screech in terror. After a shell-shocked moment, relief wins out. Of course. Of course Mike would find a way to fix this. Of course Mike would know what to say, how to make it better. God, Will loves him.

“Oh,” Will blurts, managing to get _something_ out before Mike feels like he has to re-explain. “Yeah. Good, sure. That - that works.”

It’s such an understatement, so much more impartial than what he’s really thinking, but he won’t come on too strong and push Mike away. Not now.

 _Show me what you like,_ he begs silently, closing his eyes again with a buzz of panicky anticipation in his throat as Mike leans in once again. _Teach me how you like to be kissed._

But still, Mike doesn’t make contact. Will is just starting to wonder if he’s being teased, or tricked, when a thumb drags against the hinge of his jaw just under his earlobe. 

“Relax your jaw,” Mike says.

Will does. Unclenching the muscles, putting space between his molars, getting his tongue back down from the roof of his mouth again.

“And...” Something touches Will’s lips and he gives a minuscule jump, but it’s just Mike’s thumb again, brushing against Will’s dry and chapped lower lip. “Let your lips part a little.”

Will does, feeling a little vulnerable now, though he doesn’t know why.

He’s anticipating the touch, this time, and he doesn’t jump when Mike’s hands touch either side of his head and push, gently. “Tilt your head. Or we’re gonna smash our noses together.”

He _almost_ laughs, startled by the silly imagery, but he manages to hold it in.

He can’t help it; he opens his eyes. This is taking so long, and he wants to see what’s going on. _Just kiss me,_ he thinks, eager and impatient and second-guessing himself. _Just come and kiss me already._

Maybe Mike is nervous, too. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. Maybe he’s putting it off as long as he can because this is a chore to him.

But before that thought can get too far, Mike’s hands have moved again, this time taking Will’s wrists, tugging Will’s hands up.

Mike’s voice is a little unsteady, this time. Maybe it has something to do with Will’s open eyes, how he’s watching Mike quietly, wordlessly. “You can put your hands on my shoulders if you want.”

Will does. Shyly, completing the action that Mike set in motion, wrapping cold fingers around the warm solidness of Mike’s shoulders, feeling the thick-soft texture of his sweater. But as soon as he gets there Mike is pulling at his wrists again, moving them, and Will barely has time to think, _Did I do something wrong?_ before Mike is pressing Will’s palms to his waist, just above Mike’s bony hips.

“Or... here.”

Moving again, and this time Will can feel Mike’s fingers shaking as he guides Will’s hands to Mike’s own head and neck. 

And finally the fingers around Will’s wrists slip away, letting his hands _stay,_ and Mike whispers, “Or here.”

Will swallows. _Relax your jaw. Part your lips. Tilt your head._ And then, as they _both_ start to move in this time - _Close your eyes._

And they’re kissing. It happens before Will even realizes. He tunes back in after a moment of absent shock and thinks, hazily, _Oh, it’s happening already._ And then the shock wears away and he breathes out a long, slow breath against Mike’s cheek, his whole body seeming to unravel, shoulders falling and neck going loose as he thinks, _Oh, finally._

Mike’s hands have found their way to Will’s torso. One on his hip and one on his shoulder, steadying him, grounding him as a warm pair of lips work carefully against his own. And Will doesn’t know how to do that, he doesn’t know how to move his mouth the right way - is he supposed to pucker, or what? - but he leans in, relaxes into the touch, just accepting.

There’s a warmth, an ache, bleeding through the hollow center of his chest and out towards his extremities. Glowing and steady and inexorable, it burns like a hot little flame in the cage of his ribs and creeps up his throat, down his arms, into his stomach and his spine and the throbbing tips of his fingers. Every nerve in his body is awake, buzzing like a livewire, and _especially_ those sensitive nerve endings in his lips. He didn’t know lips could feel this much. Is that weird? Surely it’s abnormal, how sensitized his lower face has become. His whole jaw feels like it’s just shy of tingling. He has a sudden, startling desire, nearly feral in its intensity, for Mike to suck on his lower lip.

When Mike slips away, their lips parting with a tiny, wet noise, Will’s hands and arms flex on instinct. Gripping the side of Mike’s head and the back of his neck, thoughtlessly trying to keep him from leaving. _No, wait. Please. Come back. That was so fast._

“All there is to it,” Mike rasps, and then his head ducks to clear his throat, and Will tries to fight away disappointment that it’s over.

“Well, that’s not so hard,” he tries to joke.

But Mike isn’t pulling away, extracting himself from Will’s soft grip on his head, and Will tries not to notice his own heart beating a little harder with hope. Maybe Mike wants to do it again?

It’s too much to wish for. _Don’t be greedy,_ he tells himself, _You got your impossible wish, and you want more? Don’t question magic like that. Just be glad you got what you got._

“There’s other kinds,” Mike says abruptly, and all at once Will realizes that _his_ hands haven’t moved either, they’re still burning holes in Will’s hip and shoulder. “Of kisses.”

Will falls through the floor in one long, tumbling swoop. “Yeah?”

He can see Mike’s throat move as he swallows. “You can use your tongue, too.”

Will has to ask. He knows that, suddenly, looking at Mike’s wide-eyed, furtive, eager terror. Mike won’t take this step. If Will wants it -

And, oh, how he wants it.

His voice is hoarse as a rusty hinge as he forces himself to say, “Could you show me that?”

Mike’s frame deflates a little with the permission - is Will just projecting, or is Mike really mirroring his own relief? But he’s already shifting, tilting forward, finally submitting to the gentle tug of Will’s palms on his skull.

“Okay.”

Will is so content just to have their mouths pressed together again, despite his lingering insecurities of inexperience and clumsiness, that for a second he forgets why they’re doing this again. He just goes pleasantly blank, easing back into it, soaking in the texture of Mike’s hair under his fingers and the hot, flesh-and-blood beat of Mike’s pulse, and the smell of him. The primal-reassuring touch of lips to lips, slotting together as Mike relaxes and parts his own lips a little further. 

And then something hot and soft and slick brushes against Will’s upper lip and a little electric shock snaps through him, raising the hair on the back of his neck. Right. Right, the tongue thing. That’s why they’re doing this.

A second later Will feels it again, and this time, Mike’s tongue slips along the soft inner lining of Will’s top lip, nearly grazing his teeth - and Will is just as surprised as Mike to feel his mouth opening. It’s a buried instinct, long dormant. An urge Will has never felt until his body gave in to it without thought or question, opening up under Mike’s tongue.

For a split second Will worries that he made the wrong move, like maybe that’s too weird, and then Mike is already moving into the offered space. Tracing around the shape of Will’s lips and then slipping his tongue further into Will’s mouth, Mike’s own jaw going lax as he opens his mouth in kind.

Will is a mess. There’s not a complete thought in his brain, it’s all just happy, breathless static. Will’s hands are in Mike’s hair and Mike’s tongue is stroking along Will’s lower lip and he’ll never be sad again.

Mike is keeping remarkably cool, all things considered. He seems confident and almost... unaffected, in a way. Closed off, maybe. And Will supposes that’s fair enough, Mike isn’t wired to enjoy this quite the way Will is. 

But, as Mike breaks away half an inch to breathe, huffing against Will’s lips, chest rising and falling, Will presses his forehead hard against Mike’s and thinks, _I’ll learn how to make this good for you, too. I’ll learn what you like. I’ll learn how to unravel you. I promise._

And then Mike fits their mouths together again like it’s the most natural thing in the world, leaning into Will with a deep inhale, and Will notices something. He feels how Mike’s hand is slipping, inch by inch, around Will’s hip and to the small of his back. How the hand on Will’s shoulder has started to bunch up the fabric of his shirt. How Mike’s movements are careful, measured. Not hesitant, not ginger, just... gentle. Deliberate. Like he’s feeling his way forward, meditating on every movement and sensation. Like maybe he’s... savoring them? It seems like too much to hope for. But Mike is being very purposeful about this. Studious. Alert. Like he’s taking great care to control his actions, keep himself in check.

That deliberate care slips, for the first time, when their tongues touch.

The brush of tongue against tongue makes something _tug_ deep in Will’s belly, and he hears a sound of animal satisfaction hum in his mouth before realizing he made it. A hungry, contented little _mmph._ He cringes as soon as he realizes he did it - how embarrassing - but Mike seems to _respond_ to that. Really respond, for the first time, rather than just leading and guiding. He shivers and presses in with a jagged motion that seems half instinctual, his tongue rubbing against Will’s in a way that makes Will pant through his nose.

 _Yes,_ Will thinks, half delirious, _Good. That’s good, Mike, that’s okay. Let me in. It’s just me._

But after that Mike seems to close up again, clamming up more tightly than before, throwing himself back into making _Will_ respond, and, well, Will doesn’t have the strength of mind to do anything but oblige.

He doesn’t remember when they started full-on frenching. He just knows that five minutes ago he’d never been kissed, and now his mouth is yawning against Mike’s, lips a little slick with saliva, and their tongues are doing what Will can only describe as _exploring._ Sliding together, feeling out each other’s lips and teeth, seeing what it feels like when they push or flick.

 _Oh, my god,_ Will thinks, remembering all at once why they’re here and how this is even happening. _He said yes._

This is his partner. He’s not just getting kissed - and, god _damn_ is he getting kissed - he’s kissing his _partner._ Mike agreed. He agreed to the deal. He said yes. They’re partners.

A surge of fierce affection wells up in him, giving him no choice but to nuzzle against his _partner,_ nipping at Mike’s lip with mischievous enthusiasm, heart beating madly.

_My partner. My person. My Mike._

Mike gasps at the nip, breaking away - not to chide, as Will expected, but to drag damp kisses down the length of Will’s throat. Will barely has time to think, _What is he doing?_ before Mike’s mouth seals around the flesh right between his neck and shoulder, biting down before giving a hard suck. Will goes limp and groans, head lolling, no longer even attempting to keep track of what’s happening. He doesn’t care. Just as long as Mike doesn’t stop.

And then - Murphy's Law - Mike stops.

Will understands why a moment later, when Mike is already on the other side of the couch with a binder in his lap, pretending to study as footsteps cross the floor above.

The basement door opens.

“Will!” Karen hollers. “Your mom’s here!”

_Fuckshit._

The shopping.

They were going early Christmas shopping in the city today, where the big department stores have clearance sales. They always go during October, before Christmas prices can even _begin_ to creep up, when there’s plenty of time to start collecting gifts on a tight budget. Will has been so single mindedly focused, since the moment Mike spoke up, that he entirely forgot what day it was and what he was waiting for.

“Okay!” he manages to call back.

Mike is staring when Will turns around, but his eyes drop before they can make real eye contact. “I guess I have to,” Will says, gesturing vaguely up the stairs.

“Christmas shopping, right?”

“Yeah. God, I completely forgot.” He stands regretfully, shoving things into his backpack with jelly fingers.

Karen’s footsteps retreat again, Distantly, Will can make out the muffled tones of their mothers chatting at the Wheelers’ front door.

The couch squeaks as Mike gets up, and Will is about to laugh - his _hair,_ it’s a complete mess thanks to Will’s fingers - when Mike darts in for one last little peck. Will immediately forgets what he was going to say, blushing and grinning, convinced he fell into a different dimension again. A good one, this time.

Mike suddenly pulls an _oh no_ face, grimacing and whispering, “Shit, your hair!”

They both move to pat it down, hands colliding and getting in each other’s way, and Will is tugging his shirt straight, smoothing out wrinkles when Mike’s eyes land on something on his neck. His eyes widen and he looks away, avoiding Will’s gaze as he says, “I’ll - see you later, I guess.”

“See you,” Will says, and he stumbles up the stairs, starry-eyed and half-hard in his pants and grinning like a fool, and completely incapable of feeling any deserved shame about it.

He can’t even feel bad about the awkward goodbye and the way Mike couldn’t quite meet his eyes. He’s still grinning as he greets his mom, still grinning as they drive away, trying to hide it in a sleeve. He’s more chipper and agreeable than he has been on a shopping trip... ever. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Joyce comments, about five minutes into the drive.

Will laughs aloud. _Well, that would be on account of I got kissed real good._

But what he says is, “I think I’m having a fever dream,” and, _whoops,_ that was the wrong thing to say to his mom.

She turns to look at him, worried now. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” he assures quickly. “Yeah. Totally.”

This might work. This might actually _work._

That was more than Will ever imagined, more than he ever hoped for. Mike was... he wasn’t just putting up with it, or using Will as a warm body. He was _present._ He participated, he reacted, they worked together. They did that _together._ This might _work._

And, hell, even if it doesn’t Will doesn’t care. Not right now. Not with the taste of Mike still on his lips, in his mouth, the imprint of Mike’s hand pressing into his right hip just above his belt. He’s riding too high, too far gone to care if that never happens again, because it _happened,_ and Mike is his _partner,_ they agreed and they’re doing this. And whether it lasts for a day or a decade, Will couldn’t be in a bad mood right now if he was punched in the gut and robbed. For right now, everything is perfect.

* * *

Well. It works.

Mike sits in the basement, alone, trying not to notice how he can still smell Will on his clothes. He feels like he just went cliff diving. Adrenaline is rushing through him. His heart rate still hasn’t settled.

He kissed Will to see if it would work at all, if he could stomach it. Would it be repulsive to him? Mildly distasteful? Would he barely feel anything at all, and just go through the motions? Or... would he like it?

He liked it.

He liked it enough to get entirely carried away, stroking his tongue into Will’s hot, slick mouth, hands creeping up Will’s ribs, even breaking away to pepper kisses down Will’s throat and bite gently at his neck - and where the hell had _that_ impulse come from? He never did that with El. Hell, he never did _half_ of that with El, and he’s only kissed one other girl - a brief and stomach-fluttering encounter on a field trip, in a removed hallway of the science and nature museum when they both managed to duck the tour guide and teacher chaperones. But Mike has never done _that_ before. Marcy Elliot let him trace his tongue along the soft edges of her glossed lips, hiding from chaperones between a butterfly display and a rock wall demonstrating mineral dating, but he’s never touched tongues with anyone before. Not like _that._

 _Okay,_ he thinks, heart still pounding, palms still a little damp, just a _touch_ of shameful arousal still simmering in his blood. _Okay, yeah. So. It works. It works with Will._

But does it work a little _too_ well? Was that a failing on Mike’s part? Did he forget himself too much? Maybe he shouldn’t have been that drawn in. Maybe he shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much.

But he was in control. He was _in control._ It’s not like Will had _seduced_ him or anything. Mike was behind the wheel, that whole time. He was the one giving instructions, guiding and controlling what they did. He was leading, not being led. He was careful not to let it affect him too much. 

Yeah, he _enjoyed_ it, but he didn’t let it _get_ to him. He carefully kept his walls up, isolating and quashing any reflexive sighs, shivers or groans. He blocked it out from his innermost self, enjoying the contact without letting it _get_ to him. And a warm body is a warm body, after all. It’s not like _that_ makes him gay. So, thus far, no harm no foul.

* * *

_November_

Mike is in a bizarre kind of limbo for the next couple weeks. He eats dinner with his family. He does his homework, or he doesn’t. He tells bedtime stories to his demanding but endearing little sister. He goes to school and talks to classmates and hangs out with the Party. And every few days or so he finds himself in a private corner somewhere, in his basement or his room or Will’s room or the AV room, locking lips with another guy.

It’s the first big difference. There are other ones, smaller ones, but they might almost fly under the radar if Mike wasn’t looking for them. Just little touches and gestures that might have gone completely unnoticed if not for the _situation._

Will leans against Mike during Party Movie Night - just a _little_ more cuddly than usual. 

When Spock leans against the glass and rasps, “I have been, and always shall be, your friend,” Will presses his lips together, eyes misting. 

This scene has always made Will cry, ever since they _begged_ Mike’s parents to take them to see it in theaters when they were eleven and it was way too scary for them. But they took advantage of Ted’s general cluelessness, and he gave in and bought them tickets, and got an exasperated talking-to from his wife when Mike had nightmares about giant earwigs for weeks afterwards.

Now, Will hunkers down a little further on the couch, squashing Mike against the cushions. And Mike hesitates, debates, decides it’s too dark for the Party to notice much - and gently lifts his arms in invitation. Will burrows right into the proffered embrace.

Halloween passes without great incident. Mike takes Holly trick-or-treating. She harassed him until he agreed to be Captain Hook while she was a crocodile. They stop by the Byers house last, taking the car. The Byers don’t get many trick-or-treaters, on the edge of town as they are, but Joyce opens the door in a witch costume anyway and unloads at least half a pound of candy into Holly’s plastic pumpkin. Will, dressed as someone who isn’t very fond of Halloween anymore, smirks at Mike’s costume in a way that makes his skin prickle - not at all unpleasantly. 

A few days later, Will shows up to Mike’s first period before the bell rings and presses a thermos into Mike’s hands. He doesn’t even say anything, just hands it over and leaves. It’s full of coffee, sweet like Mike likes it, clearly brewed in the Byers’ pot before Will left the house.

Will has also been bashfully gifting him with drawings and candy. And leaning against Mike when they stand together, and resting his chin on Mike’s shoulder, and a couple times he even looks Mike right in the eyes and tells him he looks handsome that day. And Mike has to pull his sweater up over his head like a turtle and hide. 

In all truth he’s been raining attention on Mike, and Mike - ever the middle child, happy in the spotlight - doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He’s overwhelmed and pleased and doesn’t really know how to respond.

And he’s worried. Is this what they’re supposed to do? Is this what he’s _expected_ to do? He supposes he did promise Will a full relationship, not half-and-half. No matter how haunted he is by those earthworms in his belly, cold and slimy and wriggling, warning him with every not-quite platonic touch and sweet gesture that this is wrong, this is bad, he needs to get away from this.

Mike ignores that as best he can, and he does his best to stand up to the challenge. He offers to quiz Will for a test he’s been worried about. He leaves funny or encouraging notes in Will’s locker. He offers an embrace where before he might have given a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. And when Will offers Mike a place on his bed at a sleepover - _C’mon, the floor can’t be comfortable. We don’t have to_ cuddle _or anything, just get up here._ \- Mike climbs up. They wake with their backs pressed together and their feet touching.

Little differences. Small ones.

The thing is, it’s so close to normal. It’s _so_ close to the things they normally do. Leaning against each other, listening to each other. Accepting each other’s various little insanities without judgement. Mike’s arm around Will’s shoulders, Will’s arm around Mike’s waist. It’s all so familiar, all so... normal. It’s just that _little_ bit extra that makes it strange or noteworthy. That _little_ extra push.

 _We make a good team, don’t we?_ Will’s voice says in Mike’s head, echoing more often than he’d like to admit.

And, yeah. They do.

Sometimes Mike forgets he’s even in this arrangement, during moments at home or at school, or with other friends. Sometimes he can ignore it, forget it, forget that little uncomfortable voice in the back of his mind that whispers, _You’re doing something bad. You’re in trouble._ He even forgets with Will, sometimes, when they’re just hanging around like they always do. And then Will licks his lips, or says something about college.

And then he’ll remember.

And then there’s the kissing.

And that’s... becoming a problem.

Mike is slipping. He can feel it, he can tell. Every time he kisses Will - and, hell, all the other new stuff, too - he can feel himself sliding further. No matter how hard he tries to stay unaffected, separate, in control. So he fights harder, draws further into his shell, trying to keep himself from... He doesn’t know. From feeling? From falling? From being moved?

From being _changed,_ he thinks.

Mike turns over yet again, lifting his head to peer at the clock with bleary eyes. 3:12am. Fantastic. He flips onto his stomach and faceplants in his pillow, letting out a frustrated groan.

The real problem is, he’s starting to think he’s blocking them. Preventing them from something, from moving forward, hurting this thing he and Will are trying to build. Neither of them have said anything. Either Will is unaware of the war raging in Mike’s mind, or simply unwilling to bring it up and disturb the peace. And Mike, well, frankly he’s been avoiding the subject. Like if they just don’t acknowledge that anything is different, maybe it’ll be fine. 

But he knows this isn’t what Will meant when he offered this relationship. 

The little stuff, it’s nice. And the kissing is too nice, dangerously so. But they’ve been stuck. Stuck in a limbo, pretending like this thing isn’t happening even while it happens, never looking directly at it. And that’s Mike’s fault. Because he’s holding himself back. He’s trying to let this thing happen while slamming on the brakes, and... he’s realizing, now, that it just can’t work like that.

And, finally, he’s reached some sort of breaking point. Here, now, delirious from sleep deprivation and exhausted from trying to remain in control. Now, as he breathes into his pillow with a throbbing headache and swollen, itching eyelids, something snaps.

 _Fine,_ he thinks quietly, broadcasting the thought out into the universe. _Fine, I get it. I can’t have both._

He can’t have control _and_ this. He can’t stay unaffected, unchanged, while he has this with Will. Either it’s going to affect him, change him, or it’s going to stop. 

And he doesn’t want it to stop.

He’s ashamed to think it, but it’s true. Maybe it’s weakness, wanting to keep this thing. Maybe it’s the easy path. Maybe he really is that easily bought: with attention and little gifts and kisses.

But, weakness or not, easy path or not, he can’t bring himself to end this. The thought of it makes him recoil in - sadness, he realizes. The thought of breaking this off, giving it up, makes him sad. Acutely, unbearably so.

So... 

He shifts again, turning his face to the cool, fresh air. Lost in deep, honest, sleep-deprived thought as one only can be at three in the morning.

So Mike is going to have to do something terrifying.

And he’s not sure if he can.

* * *

Coins rattle and clink out onto the Byers’ kitchen table, followed by the papery rustle of bills.

Mike swipes his hand into the fat pickle jar, dislodging the last stubborn bills. One rogue quarter rolls off the table and goes wobbling merrily away, and Will stoops to catch it.

“I haven’t counted in a while,” Mike is saying, putting down the jar and starting to push the little pile of money into categories. Bills, quarters, other coins. “Last time I think I had about $150.” He smiles ruefully up at Will, who deposits the runaway quarter in its pile. “Advantages of having well-to-do relatives. I usually get money for Christmas and birthdays. From my aunts and uncles, at least. On my dad’s side. And my grandparents do it too, but -”

“You really don’t have to,” Will interrupts. He’s rocking from foot to foot, looking a little guilty.

Mike shrugs. “I’ve barely touched it anyway.”

He grimaces at himself as soon as he says it. It makes him sound like such an insufferable rich kid, standing in the Byers’ run-down kitchen in their one-story house at the ragged edge of town, leaning over a pile of money and saying, _Oh, my savings? I barely use them. Honestly, I’ll hardly notice splitting them._

Mike starts counting, resolutely. Bills first. After a moment, Will drifts to the table and starts working on the coins.

It was a bit of a gamble, offering to give Will money. 

_Share._ To _share_ his money with Will. _Giving_ makes it sound like charity, which the Byers have historically turned up their noses at. Will is no different than his mom or brother in this regard. Mike had to be very careful about how he phrased the idea, when he first proposed it. But it seemed right. It felt right. And not just in the spirit of this arrangement; Mike probably would have tried to split his money with Will anyway, if it had occurred to him and if he could convince Will to take it.

But maybe Will wouldn’t have taken it, if they weren’t doing this.

They count silently for a while, which is a welcome respite. Mike can’t think too much while he’s counting out the money. If he gets too far down one rabbit hole or another, he’ll lose track. Plus, counting out bills like this makes him feel like a mobster in an old noir film.

Mike finishes counting a pile, notes the amount, and then gathers it up and flips through it with a thumb, lifting an invisible cigar to his mouth. “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,” he slurs, in his best-worst impression of Marlon Brando, and Will snorts at him.

“You come into _my_ house,” Will says without looking up. “On this, the day of my daughter’s wedding.”

“Badda-bing, badda boom!” 

Will arches an eyebrow at him and Mike shrugs.

“I dunno, somebody says that, right? I’ve never actually seen the whole movie.”

Will’s mouth drops open. “You’ve _never_ -? Oh, we can’t be friends anymore.”

“What?” Mike laughs, while in the back of his mind something whispers, _Are we? Are we_ friends _anymore?_

“It’s a _classic,_ ” Will insists over Mike’s protests. “It’s Scorsese!” 

“It’s _boring._ I remember seeing part of it on TV at my aunt’s house when - wait a minute, it is not Scorsese.”

“How old were you?”

“I guess like twelve. It's not Scorsese.”

“Well that’s why you thought it was boring, then. It’s not supposed to be for twelve-year-olds. You’d like it if you -”

“Whatever, it’s boring. And it's Coppola.”

“Bad. Wrong. Uncultured,” Will scolds, throwing pennies at Mike’s chest. “And now I’ve lost count, look what you’ve done. I have to start over. This is your fault.”

“You did this,” Mike intones, launching into a years-old inside joke, and Will jumps onboard to say at the same time, “ _You_ did this. The crackers were _your_ responsibility! You have _wasted crackers!”_

They laugh. It gives Mike the courage to keep talking, before Will can start counting again. “I do wanna do this, you know.” 

And maybe that’s why he brought up the money in the first place. Maybe it’s a bad habit he picked up from his parents. Money equals worth. Money equals weight. Money equals commitment. Maybe he’s a little more like his father than he thought. 

Will glances up, confused for a moment, and then he gets it and looks back down. “I know. You told me.”

“Yeah, but.”

They haven’t really _talked_ about this. And frankly Mike hasn’t wanted to. It’s just too awkward, too hard to know how to approach it. What are they allowed to say? What are they allowed to acknowledge? What’s too much? How uncomfortable is it going to be?

But he’s not going to avoid it anymore. He decided that, and he’s sticking to it. He’s not gonna be the person that avoids any and all uncomfortable topics and buries conflicts. He’s not _that_ much like his dad.

Mike takes a breath and slides nickels around on the tabletop, arranging them into patterns. “I dunno, I just,” _I’m scared, I feel like I’ve been holding us back but I’m afraid of what will happen if I stop,_ “I don’t know how to do this. And I -” 

“You’ve been doing great,” Will says, echoing what Mike once told him about kissing.

Mike looks at him, skeptical.

“You’re doing great,” he repeats. He looks at Mike for a moment and says, as if in afterthought, “You know, I - I don’t want you to - you don’t have to -” He huffs in frustration and busies his hands with the coins, flicking pennies to Mike’s side of the table like they’re playing air hockey. Mike flicks them back. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. This shouldn’t be something uncomfortable. You know? Like, that’s not what I want this to be.”

 _You’re wrong,_ Mike thinks.

Growing pains are a fact of life. Testing your boundaries is never _comfortable._ And Mike’s boundaries are too narrow, too tightly defined for this, and it’s never going to work if he doesn’t push himself past them.

So, yes, Mike _should_ be uncomfortable.

He has to be. 

But he doesn’t know how to explain all that to Will. 

So maybe he just has to try it out. Put his plan to the test.

He remembers too late that he’s supposed to answer. “I know. I’m not,” he lies, “I’m just getting used to... You know.” 

He puts down the little pile of pennies he had been bouncing in his palm, stepping around the corner of the table. Into Will’s space. Will’s eyebrows rise a degree as he lifts his chin to look up at him. Mike’s heart is pounding for what feels like the millionth time this month. He swears he’s going to have a heart attack at the ripe old age of eighteen after all this. He was going to wait. He was going to wait until the next time _Will_ kissed _him,_ and then try out his plan, but he’s too impatient now. He just wants to do it, to get it over with, because he can’t stand waiting any longer to see what happens.

And the first step is asking. It seems so simple, doesn’t it? They’re just words. But even this is a vulnerability. Asking for what he wants is admitting that he _wants_ something, that he wants _this,_ and any desire can be a weakness in the wrong hands. Admitting that he wants this is allowing Will a glimpse into something he’s been fighting like hell to keep hidden.

The whole sentence is too daunting to attempt, so after a second Mike just holds out an arm, looks at the floor behind Will and mumbles, “Kiss?”

Will seems to process this for a second. Mike hasn’t explicitly asked like that, not since the first time. They just kind of do it, often wordlessly, and then walk away without talking about it. 

Will moves in. Stepping close and lifting his hands to cup Mike’s face, pausing to study him for a moment. Mike tries not to duck his head and twist his face away. He’s not used to that. To being _looked_ at like that. He’s not a remarkably attractive guy, never has been, and he has long associated scrutiny with ridicule. But Will often pauses here, just a few inches away, looking Mike over. Doubtless, examining all the awkward, ugly humanness and imperfections. The chapped lips and the blemishes, shiny skin and unruly hair.

Mike is never sure what he’s looking for. But today, just like every other day, Will seems to deem Mike’s physical form as _good enough,_ and gives up the inspection to tilt in.

_Maybe everyone is right._

That’s what Mike has been thinking, these past few days, ever since he had his bleary epiphany at 3:00am.

_Maybe I am trading my Manliness Card or whatever for an easier life, little by little._

_Maybe I am slowly giving up my chance to be a normal person and have a normal life._

_Maybe it is a slippery slope, and every second that I allow this to happen is another inch forward that I can’t go back._

_Maybe I’m giving away some part of myself in exchange for protection and support and affection and maybe even a chance at my dreams._

_But is that so bad? I don’t like myself that much, anyway. Losing a little bit of myself wouldn’t be that much of a loss, all things considered._

So now, with Will’s lips warm and real against his own, he resists the habitual urge to put emotional distance between himself and what’s happening. He willfully unwinds his muscles, even as Will settles into the kiss, taking another half-step forward to press their torsos together. He tries to relax, and he focuses, and he opens himself up. Raw and trembling but fighting hard against his own instinct to shrink back and close up again, and he focuses on just accepting. And if it’s poison that he’s taking into his veins, into his being, fine. Good. Let it poison him. It might even feel good, _be_ good for him, in a strange, counterintuitive kind of way. Like peeling up an old scab or sinking into a too-hot bath. 

But the thing is, it doesn’t feel like a loss. Even when Will slips his tongue into Mike’s mouth, pulling Mike a little harder against him by the hips, seeming to sense that this kiss is different somehow. Mike has finally stopped holding Will at an emotional arm’s length, and Will seems to know that immediately, to see that, and he’s moving into that space without hesitation. Taking the reins that Mike is shakily offering. Will explores this new dynamic, this new space to breathe and move, with an inquisitive verve. He pulls back to cock his head at Mike, questioning, curious, and then moves in again, and this time Mike feels himself being gently backed up against the counter as Will licks into his mouth.

And just like that, Mike feels less in control of the situation, of himself, than he ever has before. 

He feels a noise begin in his chest, and this time, instead of swallowing it, he pries open his throat and tries to let himself react. It’s a small, clipped noise, cut short by ingrained reticence, but it’s there. And Will hears it. And he smiles. And Mike slips another few inches, another few _feet_ down that slippery slope, panics for a second, scrabbles frantically to stop himself... and then exhales and lets himself go.

It doesn’t feel like how Mike expected. He doesn’t feel like any part of himself is being burned away. He doesn’t feel like he’s losing something, he feels... full. Will folds into him, slipping his arms around Mike’s waist to push his hands into Mike’s back pockets, and Mike feels himself folding back. He melts into the kisses, letting Will set the pace from chaste to open-mouthed to breathless, heads moving and twisting to re-align themselves, Will’s teeth digging into his lower lip, and he thinks, _Oh god, oh god._ He’s in freefall. He feels completely out of control, completely helpless, lost, dizzy. At Will’s mercy. It’s terrifying. And deeply, almost primally cathartic. Like an intangible hand has reached right into Mike’s core, right past all his walls and mental blocks and safeguards like they aren’t even there, and plucked at something so deep within him, so sensitive and tender, that it’s unbearable. Almost painful in its intensity, though it doesn’t hurt. It’s like some string, some wire or knot tied up in the depths of him, has been deftly and mercilessly snipped. There’s a feeling of release. Small, but deep. Fundamental. 

Something has shifted, inside him, some pillar has crumbled or some scale has tipped, and with it, _everything_ has tipped. _Everything_ has shifted. He can feel it the way he feels a shudder of thunder in a summer storm. In his ribs, in his lungs. And everything in him screams to withdraw, to shut down, to slam down his mental walls and shut everything out and reject this, protect himself, protect... whatever _that_ was, whatever Will just brushed up against in Mike’s psyche. And he almost does. He shudders and comes _this_ close to pulling away, stepping back, saying, _Never mind, I changed my mind, I can’t do this, it’s too much, it’s too, I can’t, I_ can’t, _I’m sorry._

But just as Mike twitches, right on the shivering edge of closing himself off, Will eases up with a sigh. Breaking the kiss gently, giving Mike room to suck in a breath and gather himself, lapsing away from that point of panic he had been approaching.

They pant for a moment, still pressed together, Will’s hands still resting in Mike’s back pockets in a way that makes him want to squirm. If Will moved just a little further and flexed his fingers he’d be dangerously close to cupping Mike’s ass, and he’s trying to ignore -

No. No, don’t ignore. That’s not allowed, not anymore. Let it in, acknowledge it, accept it.

He rests his forehead against Will’s, his whole body warm like he has a fever, and makes himself imagine it for a split-second. What would it feel like if Will _did_ reach down a little further and -?

He can’t even complete the thought, but he shudders again anyway.

 _Okay,_ he thinks, _That’s enough for now. I can’t -_

And that was exactly the wrong thing to think, because something stubborn and defiant inside him immediately rears up and says, _Oh, yeah?_

He wants to prove that he can do this. He _can_ do this, he’s stronger than the walls in his own mind. 

So even though it was almost too much - _was_ too much last time, Mike re-centers himself and gently tugs Will back in, and Will obliges with a sigh. Mike concentrates on keeping himself present. Grounded. Open. He concentrates on allowing Will’s fingers, which are moving to his hips now, to send a fizzy wave of energy through Mike’s abdomen and legs, making his muscles feel a little weak. Allowing the soft, hot touch of Will’s tongue to send a warm little shock through him. Allowing his breath to catch when Will’s other hand slides hesitantly up the back of Mike’s neck to play with his hair - and, _oh,_ that does feel good. 

He concentrates on staying receptive. Not freezing up or shutting out the sensations, even though they’re overwhelming. Not locking down his reactions, this time, hiding them away behind a stoic mask. He fights fear and instinct, telling them, _not now, not here, I don’t need you right now,_ and lets himself sigh and lean into Will’s touch, just a little, just enough. 

And it’s a little easier this time, to keep his walls down when all they want to do is bounce right back up every time he’s not looking at them. It’s just a degree easier this time to feel, and accept, and even _relax._ And the frantic, ingrained flutter of resistance within him begins to ease. Not as loud in his ears, not as anxiety-inducing. 

Will seems to sense the shift. Maybe he feels when a modicum of tension melts from Mike’s frame, or he feels Mike’s pulse slow under his fingertips, because he seems to lose a little of his own control. He paws at Mike’s head, using the other hand to grip his hip, turning them, leaning _himself_ back against the counter so that Mike can lean over him. Mike gives in to the request, pinning Will in place, one hand braced on the counter behind him. Their hips are pressed together, he realizes with a hard _swoop_ of blood rushing south. He feels a little lightheaded, and - for the first time, in Technicolor clarity - he feels the animal urge to thrust.

“God,” he heaves, pulling away at last, taking a half step back so he _can’t_ obey that urge.

Is that how fast it happens? _That_ fast? A few kisses and a little struggle against the ingrained feeling that he should pull back - and already he’s slipping away? Slippery slope, indeed. It’s already so much easier to brush aside those ingrained blockades in his mind. Twelve days and a handful of kisses, and eighteen years of socialization are dissolving away already.

Maybe he’s a little further gone than he thought, drunk on his own personal trip into the subconscious, because he finds himself panting aloud, “How are you so good at that?” 

Will flushes, pleased, making no attempt to remove himself from between Mike and the counter. “I am?” Mike can’t answer, but Will doesn’t seem to need one, because he beams shyly at the floor and says, “I just. You know. Pick stuff up from movies. Or books. And.” He shifts his weight back and forth, reaching back to prop his hands on the counter. “I’ve spent kind of a long time thinking about how I’d kiss you.”

And that’s it, that’s the thing that finally does it. The thing that tips Mike over into true overwhelm, and he has to pull back fully this time. Gratefully retreating behind the familiar safety of his walls with a mish-mash of adrenaline and fear and pleasure and so, so many things racing around in his veins.

Will lets him go without further comment. He doesn’t ask Mike what that was all about or why he stopped so suddenly, though he throws him a bemused glance or two, and for that Mike is deeply grateful.

They return to counting out Mike’s savings - they have to start all over again - and Mike thinks, no, he _knows_ for sure that he’s completely and entirely fucked. But that doesn’t scare him quite as much as it did yesterday.

 _That was bad,_ the familiar voice gnaws, cold and slimy and insistent, _You’re damning yourself, you know that? You’re ruining yourself._

 _Yeah, well,_ Mike thinks, finally finishing the bills and moving on to help Will with nickels and pennies. _I think I’ll probably get used to that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to split this chapter in half because it's long, but there wasn't really a good halfway point, so... have a hella long chapter.  
> As always, I love hearing your thoughts! :D
> 
> P.S. did I forget who directed the Godfather? Yes. Did I sneak back and act like it was the characters' mistake and not mine? Also yes.


End file.
